Raindrops
by blueirony
Summary: I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving. Charlie/OC.


**Disclaimer:**

I do not own Harry Potter, nor anything affiliated or associated with it. No copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:**

This is very long. I apologise. Any attempt to shorten it has failed. Précis writing was never my strong point.

Tense was and remains an absolute nightmare in this story. I do try and edit it from time to time. Please bear with me if you find a sentence which cannot quite decide whether it lives in the past or present.

Nevertheless, I do hope you enjoy this story.

**Raindrops**

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you simply, without problems or pride:_

_I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving._

\- Excerpt from 'Love Sonnet XVII' by Pablo Neruda

Daylight is beginning to fade and the world is stuck in the magical place between day and night. It is late afternoon, and the world seems sleepy, tired after a long spring day. Though not as bright as it was a few hours ago under the harsh Romanian sun, there is just enough light to bathe the world in a cool, dull grey. Shadows are beginning to emerge, the only dark spots on the landscape, as the sun starts to set.

The beach, a vast stretch of white sand, shows no sign of life, bar a few crabs scuttling across the white sand and a seagull, its wing feathers skimming the surface of the sea as it glides across the water. Its sharp call breaks the otherwise silent beach and an answering echo bounces off the nearby cliffs. A tide is slowly creeping in and waves race each other to the shore, rising and crashing forcefully against the beach before retreating with a slow hiss, leaving behind thick, white foam.

A swift wind has picked up; taking with it small leaves and plant debris as it rushes across the white sand. A large pile of blackened rocks sits on the other side of the beach. Once rough and sharp, after years of harsh weather, the edges of the rocks have become smooth and weather-beaten. As the wind nears the rocks, a sharp whistle permeates the air as is weaves through the leaves of some sparse trees growing near the rocks, leaving behind a rustling noise as the leaves dance together. As the sun begins to set, the late afternoon air has a slight chill as the low light combines with the afternoon breeze.

He does not notice any of this as he walks along the beach. A lone figure, silhouetted against the white sand and darkening horizon, his stride is hesitant, reluctant, as he moves closer towards the sea. The sand, free of any shells or rocks, is soft under his weathered feet. The only thing marring the otherwise dreary coastline is a long trail of footsteps he leaves behind him as he walks to the edge of the water. The place is deserted, secluded and completely free from any prying eyes.

He stops just as the cold water begins to lap at his bare toes. His head is slightly bowed; his shoulders are slouched as though the weight of the world is bearing down upon him. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of a musky green jacket; its belt ends hanging limply by his side. He lifts a foot and skims a toe through the water listlessly as he moves his unfocussed gaze to the horizon. His tired face reflects his whole persona: defeat and exhaustion. The lines on his face can be plainly seen under the setting sun and his clear blue eyes, normally full of life and joy, are filled with sadness. His hair, once a vibrant red, now hangs limp and unkempt, and, bright as the hue is, it somehow blends into the lifeless atmosphere, fading into the grey around him. Exhaling softly, he lifts his left forearm to rub a tanned hand against his worn face. As he does, the sleeve of his jacket slips past his elbow, exposing a blackened burn on his forearm.

Yet, he does not feel the pain of the burn. He does not feel the cold threatening to penetrate to his skin through his light clothing. He does not feel the icy cold water splashing gently on his toes. It is almost as though he has become immune to them. Numb. Like so much of his life, he pays no heed to his surroundings. His feelings, his work, his friends, his family – none are what they used to be. Nothing can be same. Nothing will ever be the same. Not since _her_.

A soft rain has started to fall in gentle sheets, creating a misty screen through which the horizon is just visible to the naked eye. Clouds have swept across the sky, and the world is now immersed in a soft grey. The sea, once a starting blue, has also turned dark and he reflects that the weather reflects his mood. Cold. Grey. Sad. As he stands on the beach, his feet sinking slightly into the grainy sand, a lone raindrop hangs to one his eyelashes, partly obscuring his vision and he wonders absent-mindedly whether it feels just as alone in the world as he does.

_Alone_. A harsh word, but the only one which can even begin to explain that utter devastation he feels, the aching emptiness and pain he feels in his heart.

It has been ten long years. Ten long years since he saw her dancing eyes, her sweet smile; ten long years since he has heard her tinkling laugh, felt the softness of her skin. Yet, it seems like only yesterday since he last held her, spoke to her, allowed himself to completely submit to the warmth, comfort and safety that only she could bring. He has had ten years to come to terms with her passing. And, while every day that passes should take away a little more of his pain, it does not. His pain is every bit as real as it was ten years ago. The pain he feels now is the same as what he felt when he had come here at the news, ten years ago, desperately searching for any place where he could feel whole again.

This beach was their spot. This beach was the one place in the world that was truly _theirs_. The place is filled with memories of her. The tree to his right is where they would spend countless hours cuddled up together, talking of their dreams and the future. The pile of rocks to his left is where they had their first heated argument, screaming themselves hoarse at each other until the wind became too strong for them to hear themselves. They found shapes in the clouds above him. They swam in the sea in front of him. And they danced on the sand underneath him.

This is the beach on which he fell in love.

Not the perfect, dreamlike love that is spoken about in fairytales. She had not been the damsel in distress and he had not fought a thousand dragons and swept her away into the setting sun, no. They had fallen fast and they had fallen hard. Their love had been fiery and passionate. Their love had been the type of love that can only be felt once in a lifetime, if a person is lucky enough to have felt it at all. It had been in their eyes, their touch, their kiss. The eleven months they had spent together, while the best of his life, had not been without their ups and downs. Their love had not been without its imperfections. And they had known knew it. But they had not cared. Their love had been theirs. Their love had been founded on the unconditional passion they felt for one another and nothing and no one could have ever tainted it.

Their love had been true.

Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty days. There is no time limit to grief. Time cannot dictate how a person's emotions are controlled and released. Yes, it has been ten years since she left this world, but he still aches for her every day. He still dreams of her every night, only to wake in the morning and reach for her, expecting his arms to enclose a warm mass but, instead, finding a cold, empty space next to him. He _misses_ her. He misses the small things about her. The way she would bite her bottom lip when she was nervous or thinking deeply. How she always would take exactly one sip of her morning coffee before blowing on its surface in an effort to rid it of its heat. How she would make a game of hiding his wand and acting innocent when he could never find it. The way she had always insisted on fresh flowers for every room of their small flat, stating that they brought beauty and joy. It is these small things that filled his life and now, without them, there is a void in his life that cannot be filled. It has been ten years and he is still searching for something to complete him.

Though he will never forget her, not in this lifetime, nor the next, though he will spend the rest of his life with a permanent scar on his heart, he knows that it is time. He does not often find himself on this stretch of beach since her passing. While one of the most beautiful places he has ever encountered in his life, it also is the most painful. He cannot take a step without thinking of her smile. He cannot take a breath without expecting to hear her answering laugh beside him. But he knows that it is time to let go. Not forget her, he could never do that, but accept that she has gone. It is the hardest thing he will ever do in his life, but he knows he must.

He has come to this beach to say goodbye.

As the rain falls faster around him, the raindrops melting into the sea before him, tears start to well in his eyes as he realises the enormity of what he is about to do. For ten years, he has held onto the somewhat ridiculous belief that she will one day come back to him. That, perhaps if he wishes hard enough, he will turn a street corner and see her beaming smile once again. For ten years, he has held her close and dear to his heart. For ten years, he has lived in denial that she is truly gone. Though he attended her funeral, though he packed up her things and though he himself was the one who scattered her ashes on this very beach, he has never truly accepted that she has _gone_.

Not until now.

He takes his right hand out of his jacket pocket, drawing out a small black box as he does so. The worn velvet covering the box is starting to wear and the hinge of the box has become stiff after years of overuse. His fingers find the familiar clasp and it springs open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. Once, in a distant lifetime, his entire future had lain in the glint of the diamond under the sunlight and now all the ring represents is his loss and pain.

He has never been an emotional man. Those with red hair are said to be ones quick of anger, full of pride and of defiance. Not him. He is a man of few words and has never found it easy to succumb to his innermost emotions. But, here, standing on a deserted and secluded beach on the eastern coast of Romania, a ring in his hand, a yearning in his chest for something lost, the tears start falling thick and fast, mirroring the raindrops beating down upon him. And as he gives in to his pain for the first time in many years, he allows himself to remember. He remembers _her_.

_"Is this seat taken?"_

Their first conversation had been in short, half-hearted sentences. At twenty-six years old, he had found himself bored and frustrated with his life. Eight years before, at the precipice of his adult life, immediately upon graduating, he had been lost and confused, lacking direction in his life. Never one to be confined to a desk job and wanting to take his newfound freedom further, he had followed the call to Romania on a flighty whim. He felt slightly stifled so close to home and, in true youthful exuberance, he had wanted to get away, to be free from the familiar. The danger of working with dragons had ignited a fire within him, an excitement.

And the work had been exciting. Although it had taken several years for him to encounter his first dragon in the flesh, he had loved every single second of his job. No amount of paperwork, of long hours, of being ordered around like a lackey by his seniors had deterred him from waking up every day and smiling at the thought of going into work. He had thrown every ounce of himself in his training. Although he had never enjoyed studying, he had worked through his three years of training diligently and without complaint. Always fascinated with magical creatures, the idea of working with dragons sounded like a dream come true. He had always had a vivid imagination, and he had spent many a night in his bed dreaming of working with the beasts, feeling the heat of the fire as they breathed brush against his face, the trembling of the Earth as their giant wings beat against the ground.

He had progressed quickly and was soon at the forefront, helping tend to and tame dragons on the tall mountains of Romania. Dragon-tamer. His title had an element of danger to it and he was good at what he did. Always afraid of failure, he had felt the need to prove something to himself, to his family, to his world. Though there had been a handful of times when he had regretted his decision to move so far away from his family, every square centimetre of scorched skin, every night he had gone without sleep, every time he had gritted his teeth against his sore muscles, every ounce of pain had felt like triumph. Victory over himself and his choice. Faith that he had made the correct choice. Reassurance that he was not throwing his life away on a flimsy whim he had foolishly followed at age eighteen.

Then had come the war. Though hundreds of miles had separated him from the terror, he had felt a sense of duty and responsibility to his family and to the side of light. So he had fought. The few years before the war had ended had been ones of total and unadulterated fear. As the second-eldest of his siblings, he had made every effort to not show his growing anxiety, anxiety that he would lose someone close to him. He had tried his best to fight against the rising panic that one of his siblings, his parents or friends would lose their lives to the war.

And they had. The death of his brother had shattered him and his family. Though the war had been in their favour, there had been an unwavering loss that rocked them from within. Losing a brother and a son was like losing a part of themselves, never to be found again. His family had been broken. And, for the second time in his life, he had felt suffocated at home. Though he felt guilty, he had found himself yearning for the blue Romanian skies once again. His father had reverted into himself, his mother had simply drifted from day to day and a permanent loss had settled in both their eyes. His siblings had dealt with the loss in their own unique ways and, while he had grieved with them for their lost brother, after a few months, he found himself back in Romania, away from the overwhelming grief that hung in the air in his childhood home.

But it had been different. The excitement had had once felt standing in front of a dragon had weakened. He had no longer felt the thrill of his work. He had no longer felt exhilaration of waking up every day and going into work. The fire that had been ignited within him all those years ago had burnt out. His face had aged from both the horrors he had seen and the grief he was still trying to come to terms with.

His body was tired and weak from the war. From a young age, he had been healthy and, once Quidditch had taken hold of him during school, his body had taken on to its true athletic form that translated into his work with dragons. Used to pushing his body to its limit, after the war, he had only been able to push it so far and it had left him frustrated and discouraged. Staying up into the dead of the night was harder than it used to be. He had not been able to run as fast as he once could, nor for as long. His muscles had ached, reminiscent of the times during his training when he would literally collapse into bed, often forgetting to even take his boots off his tired feet. He needed to rest and spending nine hours of every day in front of a fire-breathing dragon was not conducive to the recovery his body so desperately needed.

In short, he had been wondering whether he had made the right decision in coming back to Romania. Was it that he genuinely felt an obligation to go back to work, or was he simply escaping from something he did not want to face? Was working with dragons his true calling in life, or was there something more? Was he only feeling this way because he was war-torn and needed rest? These questions led to others and he had soon found himself in a confused state, questioning and analysing every aspect of his life.

He had felt... empty. For the first time since coming to Romania as a young and eager man of barely nineteen, he had not found satisfaction and excitement in what he did. He had not been used to this. Everything up to that point in his life he had done with a strong purpose, a reason. Yet, as he had sat on a tree stump in a dark clearing in a forest on a deserted mountainside of Romania, surrounded by his fellow dragon handlers, it was these questions that had led him to deeply contemplate and question the choices he had made in life. Staring into a fire, it was as though he had been willing the burning embers to give him an answer to his question, something, anything to end the constant second-guessing. So consumed in his thoughts he had been, that when her voice had cut through his thoughts, he had jumped and shifted his gaze to her expectant face.

_"Is this seat taken?"_

He had formed a somewhat incoherent response to her question, and after a gesture of his hand in the general direction of a tree stump next to him, she had settled herself down with a muggle writing instrument and what looked like a thick book filled with paper. Though he had been lost in his own thoughts, he had stared at the odd choices curiously for a moment before lifting his blue eyes to her face. He watched as her eyes flicked from the parchment to the trees in front of her, her hand running the pencil across the paper in long, sweeping strokes and, before his eyes, an image of the trees had slowly begun to take form on the crisp, white paper.

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Drawing."_

_"You're using a muggle pencil and sketchpad."_

_"You're observant."_

There were no other words spoken between them that evening. The only sounds surrounding them were the rustle of the trees around them, the songs of some birds as they rested in their nests for the night, the crackling of logs as they disintegrated in the yellow-red flames before them and the scratch-scratch her pencil made on the parchment. The two had sat there for hours; he, staring into the fire and she, squinting against the fading light as she started to shade in parts of her drawing. As the shadows of the trees melted together and darkness crept upon the small clearing, he had finally decided to turn in for the night. Standing up, he had turned to see her sitting with her eyes closed, her hands folded neatly on her lap, facing the fire with a small smile on her face, the paper and pencil lying at her feet. He had stared at her for a few seconds, a smile creeping on to his face as well, before he had turned on his heel and disapparated into his humble home with a soft pop.

Lying in bed that night, he had found himself unable to sleep. After tossing and turning for a few hours, he had realised that sleep would elude him that night. Folding an elbow and resting a hand behind his head on his pillow, he had stared at his ceiling in the dark, trying to understand why he could not erase the image of her sitting by the firelight from his mind. He was no stranger to girls. He had had his fair share of girlfriends during his school years, but this was the first time he had truly been captivated with one, small look. He remembered clearly the fun that came with holding a girl's hand for the first time, of exchanging stolen kisses in secluded classrooms between lessons, but he had never felt this... this _thrill_ from the simple act of looking at a girl.

His heart had never skipped a beat before that night.

Her eyes had never moved towards him and her words had been disinterested. But their short conversation had been enough to captivate him. As he had closed his eyes, he had seen the way the fire had danced off her long, dark, brown hair, causing it to shimmer and create a halo around her sweet face. As he had opened his eyes, he had seen the clearness of her grey eyes as they stared with a burning intensity at the parchment in front of her. No matter how he had tried, her face had never left his mind's eye and as he had finally drifted into a light slumber in the wee hours of the morning, a small smile had remained, playing on his lips.

Standing on the beach now, the rain soaking his clothing and blending in with his tears, a sad smile works its way on to his weathered face, so different to the one that appeared on his face in that clearing so many lifetimes ago. He makes no effort to stop his tears, nor does he make any effort to move out of the rain. The tears on his face fall in tandem with the raindrops, and he finds this oddly comforting. Each tear he sheds releases some his pain, each raindrop that falls onto him renews his senses as he tries to remember what it is like to feel again.

As he clutches the now closed jewellery box in his hand a little more tightly, he tries to remember what it was about her that he was first enamoured with. Was it the slight accent he detected in the few words she had spoken to him? Was it the sweet smile that enhanced her simply beauty as she stared into the fire that night? Or was it the sense of calm that had radiated from her, an aura that could only surround a person who was at complete peace with their life?

The night in the clearing had left him unsatisfied. While his mind had been full of thoughts of her and only her, his heart had yearned to truly discover who she was and why she had captured him so. He had longed for even the smallest detail; a simple name would have sufficed. Desperate to learn more about the mysterious beauty who plagued all his senses, he had turned to questioning the other dragon handlers based with him, and, through idle conversation, he had discovered small things about her. Born and raised in Egypt and one year his junior, she had come to Romania only a few weeks before. According to the men and few women around him, that, over the years, he had come to know as family, she was very good at what she did. Fierce, fearless and never one to back down from anything, it had seemed as though taming dragons came as second nature to her. Yet, in all of his hushed conversations between rolling up ropes and casting diversion charms, no one had ever spoken of the small things that he had noticed that night by the fire.

No one had spoken of her simple beauty. No one had spoken of the passion that was stored deep in her grey eyes. No one had spoken of the dimple that appeared in her right cheek when she smiled.

In the weeks that followed their first encounter, he had carried about his everyday life with some reluctance, still completely consumed by that one glance he had taken of her that night. He had caught himself staring into the distance while carrying tarps. He had spent just a few more seconds bracing himself before opening the gate to a dragon enclosure. He had gazed a little too hard into his evening cup of tea, stirring the steaming liquid listlessly, lost in thought. The friends he had made amongst the dragon handlers had looked at him with questions in their eyes, questions he had answered with a distracted smile, a shrug, a shake of the head. He was not ready to share his thoughts with anyone, not until he had come to understand them himself. Never before had one person taken permanent residence at the forefront of his mind and, if he had been completely honest with himself, it had scared him.

Many suns had set before he had the chance to speak to her again. After spending another sleepless night in his bed, he had come into the dragon enclosures yawning and hoping for some light work that day. The last thing he had been expecting was to be met with a new assignment and a new partner. He had been shocked to turn to the small woman beside his supervisor only to stare into the grey eyes that had been haunting his dreams for weeks. She had offered a tentative smile and, taking the proffered small hand, he had returned it with a shy smile of his own.

_"Ariana. Ariana Silvasi."_

_"Charlie Weasley."_

_"Well. It's nice to meet you, Charlie."_

_"And you."_

And, thus, with a conversation as short as their first, a friendship had sparked. Though initially slightly sceptical of how her small stature would fare against a fully grown dragon, he had quickly learned that she was every bit as good as the handlers had said she was. They had worked well together and, for the first time since his return to Romania after the war, he had started finding a purpose, a reason to wake up every morning. His attraction had not faded, if at all it had progressed into something more. As hard as he had tried to remain professional, his arms had fallen victim to a fair few burns since his gaze had travelled to her face a few more times than was perhaps safe.

They had continued on like this for some time and every day he had been drawn closer to her carefree spirit. She had attacked everything she did with vigour and fire and her soft grey eyes had always seemed to be smiling at him. It was she who had shown him the beach upon which he currently stood and, as time passed, they had spent more and more time sitting on the white sand, whiling the hours away and talking about everything under the sun. Their friendship grew until, one day, he had looked into her eyes and asked if she would like to join him for dinner one night. For some time, her eyes had held a new simmering fire whenever she looked at him and he had hoped that he had interpreted it correctly.

_"Ari?"_

_"You know I hate it when you call me that."_

_"Why else do you think I do it?"_

_"Charlie!"_

_"Ari!"_

_"You're impossible."_

_"It's part of my charm. Ari?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?"_

The casual tone with which he had asked had betrayed just how much he wanted her to say yes and he had slowly run his fingers through the sand as his pulse raced while waiting for her answer. In the short time he had known her, she had quickly taken the place as the most important person in his life. Sitting on the beach next to her, watching the sky fill with soft pinks and reds as the sun set, had felt so _right_, it scared him. He had never felt this way before; every time he had looked at her or brushed against her accidentally, his heart had stopped and his breath had caught. All he had known was that he had never wanted anything more than for her to say yes.

_"I'd... I'd like that."_

And, in one sentence, his life had changed forever.

The rain shows no sign of relenting and neither do his tears as they both fall gently to the ground. The cold has chilled his skin and he is beginning to shiver, but his heart warms as he remembers how beautiful she had looked that night. She had had a face that was so plain, it was only upon close observation that her beauty was truly seen. There had always been a peaceful serenity about her and, when she had laughed, her whole face reflected joy like nothing he had ever seen before. And, as he had taken in the wavy, brown locks the framed her face, the simple white dress and the soft expression on her face as they had stood outside his flat that night, his only thought had been that she had looked like an angel. His hand had found hers and they had gazed at each other for a few seconds, the moonlight dancing off both their faces.

_"It was a nice night."_

_"Yes. It was. Thank you for –"_

Her voice had trailed off as he had gently pressed his lips to her slightly parted ones. As her musical voice had cut through the stillness of his night, he had been staring at her mouth until he could stand it no longer – it was like a snitch in front of him, teasing him, waiting to be caught. Both his hands had come up to hold her face, stroking her cheeks gently with his thumbs and her hands had run up his back and entwined themselves in his red hair. The next few minutes had been hazy. Hands and lips had been everywhere, stroking, caressing until they had found themselves stumbling into his flat and into his bedroom.

And as he had gently slipped his leg between hers, his calloused hands stroking her soft skin gently and gazing deep into her eyes, he knew he had come home. Home was in her warm breath in his ear, her fingers as they had lightly trailed down his back, her moist lips as they had met his over and over again. Home was in the way their hearts had beaten together as the desire burned through them. _She_ was home and, as they had snuggled together a few hours later, his last thought as he drifted off to sleep had been that he would not know what to do if she ever walked out of his life.

He had woken first the next morning and had spent a long time watching her sleeping face. All her features were softened and peaceful as she smiled slightly in her sleep. Propping his head up on one elbow he had trailed a finger of his other hand across her cheekbone and she had stirred slightly and blinked sleepily at him. When her eyes met his, he had taken a moment to take her in; her sleepy eyes, the lopsided smile on her face, her tousled hair. She had never looked more beautiful than at that moment.

_"Morning, beautiful."_

_"Mmm. Morning."_

_"Sleep well?"_

_"Mhmm."_

Her eyes had slipped closed, a smile still gracing her lips and, not for the first time, he had marvelled at her beauty. As he had leaned down and softly touched her lips with his own, his heart had swelled and he had _known_.

_"Ari?"_

_"Mm-mm. Sleeping."_

_"Ari."_

_"Yes? Can I help you?"_

She had opened one eye to glare at him and, chuckling softly, he had brushed a kiss against her forehead and taken in the warmth of her body for a moment before taking a deep breath and speaking softly.

_"I love you."_

It had been said simply, with conviction and without fear. Though they had only spent one night together, he had _known_. He had _felt_ it. He had not known it was possible to feel this much for one person, and he had physically ached with his love for her. Her eyes had widened and they had both started to smile. She had thrown her arms around him, pinning his body to the mattress, and attacked him with soft kisses. Pulling back and staring into his eyes, she had whispered the revered words back to him and he had felt his soul shake. And as they had rolled over together, a tangle of limbs and a flurry of heated kisses, he had had another moment of clarity.

This girl was his soul mate.

_Soul mate_. It may have seemed too soon, but he had known in his heart that she was his, and he was hers. Forever. And he still feels the same way. Never one to spent long summer nights thinking about love, he had grown up with a very simple idea of love. Love was something that grew between two people, a feeling that built up over time. When had had envisioned himself falling in love, he had imagined it to be slow, gradual. He had certainly never thought he would fall for someone as quickly as he had. And, standing on the beach, the rain continuing to mask his tears, he knows it to still be true. He still loves her. His heart and soul are still bound to her and that is the reason why it hurts so much. _It hurts so much..._

Swallowing thickly, he remembers the utter joy he had felt waking up every morning to see her cuddled up to his side, welcoming a new day with a warm kiss. Word had spread quickly around the dragon handlers of their new relationship and the two had encountered many weeks of gentle ribbing and teasing, but they had not cared. They had been well aware that they were walking around with permanent smiles on their faces but they had not been able to help it; they were totally lost in each other. Every moment he had spent without her, all he could do was count down the seconds before she was in his arms again. They had acted like lovesick teenagers, but their love had been understood in every glance they stole at one another.

He had loved her, worshipped her, cherished her, _adored_ her. His life had been complete with her. He had not even known that he was searching for her, but once he had found her, he had known what had been missing in his life. He had first felt it while watching his elder brother commit his life to another. Though ecstatically happy for his brother, an ache had settled in his chest while watching him dance with his new wife. The ache had only become stronger with the death of younger brother, a piece of his heart had broken and it was with her sweet smile that he had begun to mend the tear in his heart. When he had been with her, he had been happy, happier than he had ever been.

_"Promise me something."_

_"Anything."_

_"Never leave me."_

_"What? I... I can't promise something like that, what if –"_

_"Promise. Me. I'm serious, Ari. I don't know what I would do without you. And I don't care how sappy that sounds, it's true."_

_"You think I don't feel the same way?"_

_"I need you to say it. Please. I need the words."_

_"I... you have to promise, too."_

_"I promise. I love you."_

_"I promise. I love you, too. Forever."_

_"Forever?"_

_"Forever."_

At the time, forever had sounded like eternity. The deep love they had felt for each other had coursed through their veins with every heartbeat and they had known they would be together. _Forever_. And, yet, as the rain continues to soak through his clothing, he can't help but think that forever was not enough. No amount of time could ever be enough. He had loved her enough for two lifetimes, but it wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough. Nothing.

He had gone home at Christmas that year with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye. Ignoring the curious glances and questions of his parents and siblings, he had only offered a vague explanation for the smile permanently etched on his face. What he had with her was special, sacred and, for some odd reason, he had not felt quite ready to share it with his family. Though he was still very close to them, his moving to Romania had caused more than just physical distance between them and he had not known how to begin to explain how the past few months had been the best of his life. How could he have put into words what he felt every time she spoke to him, smiled at him, kissed him? What could have described the way the way her soft eyes radiated love whenever she looked at him, saying more with one single expression than words ever could? How was he to have explained how, when standing with her in his arms, he had felt like he wanted to drown himself in her? His mother, he had known, had always dreamed of her children of finding the same love she shared with his father. He had known that he had found something just as special as what his parents had, perhaps something even more special. Yet, he had felt that no words could ever explain the beauty of their relationship, and that attempting to verbalise it would have somehow made it seem less than it had been.

She had looked at the world through the eyes of an artist. For all of her determination and strength, when speaking of her art, her whole demeanour would soften in a way that he had adored. He had loved that he was the only one she was comfortable enough to show the quieter, more vulnerable part of herself. Her eyes would become animated when she spoke of the beauty she saw in every breath of fresh air, every falling leaf, every note of a swallow's morning song. Even before the autumn night they had first spent in each other's arms, he had noticed that she never ventured far without a sketchpad and pencil in her hands. He had said that it drove him crazy, but he had known that she had caught him watching her sketching with a loving smile on his face on more than one occasion. She had once asked if she could draw him and he had blatantly refused after which it had become a game between the two. She would try to discreetly draw him without him noticing and, when he did, he would rip the half-completed drawing out of her hands and tickle her mercilessly.

They had danced together by the fading light on the beach, the waves lapping at their feet as they twirled and laughed together. He had left notes on the pillow for her whenever he had been called into work before her. Whenever they had been together, whether it was her hand on his knee or his thumb gently rubbing a circle on the back of her hand, they had always been touching one another. He had never thought himself a particularly romantic man, preferring to leave the chocolate and roses to the novels he often found his younger sister immersed in. He had been content with kissing a girl hello, holding her hand while walking down the street and perhaps cooking for her once in a while, nothing more. But it had been different with her. Their romance had not been one where they fed had each other strawberries in front of a crackling fire with soft piano music playing in the background, no, but, for the first time in his life, he had found that he was willing to do so, only for her. And, in his own way, he had found little ways to show her just how much he loved her. It was not every day, but it was little things that he had done to make her smile. He would have done anything to make her smile.

Their time together had been like something out of a dream. They had been completely absorbed in one another and nothing and no one could have disturbed the tranquil peace they had found with each other. Every day, he had found himself falling more and more in love with her. He would have redrawn the night sky for her if she had asked him to. More than anything, he had just loved her presence. It had been nice that he had someone to come home to, someone to lie awake with him when he could not sleep, someone just for him – he had revelled in it. So, it came as no surprise to him, that he had soon found himself staring at his entire future in her eyes. She was _it_, she was the only one he could ever love, would ever love.

She was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

It had taken him some time to find a ring. He was simple; she was simple; their relationship had been simple. The ring had had to reflect that. After staring at what had seemed like thousands of rings, he had been beginning to lose hope of ever finding one that was perfect. Some were too shiny, others had too many jewels. There were rings with Celtic designs etched into the band and there were others that promised healing powers to the wearer. It had seemed like he had rejected every ring in the small jewellery shop before his eyes had landed on a ring sitting towards the back of the display cabinet. Small and classic, it had been perfect. The second he had held the small ring between his fingers, he had felt a thrill of excitement course through his body, excitement of finally committing his life to the girl he was besotted with. When asked if he wished to engrave a message on the inside of the silver-coloured band, he had answered with a simple phrase that epitomised the depth of his love for her. Pocketing the ring, he had walked out of the shop feeling as though he was one stop closer to eternal happiness.

Keeping the ring and his plans a surprise from her had been surprisingly easy. Always a curious one, he had been afraid that she would find the ring and spoil his surprise. But, other than commenting that he looked slightly nervous, she had not noted anything else.

_"All right, out with it."_

_"Out with what, Miss Silvasi? It's a little early for that, isn't it?"_

_"Merlin knows what I did in a past life to deserve you."_

_"You were a very good girl. We can change that in a second, though, if you... hey, quit with the... ouch! All right, okay, I'm serious. What's wrong?"_

_"There is nothing wrong with me, it's you. For the past few days, you've just... I don't know. You've seemed nervous. Stressed."_

_"How can I not be? You're here next to me, your beauty leaves me breathless, my heart pounds when I look at you, the very essence of your –"_

_"Charlie!"_

_"What?"_

_"Just answer the question!"_

_"I'm fine. Honestly. What? I am! Why do you look like you don't believe me?"_

_"I'm talking to the great Charlie Weasley. Isn't that reason enough to be sceptical?"_

_"It's all part of my infallible British charm."_

_"How about you take your feet off my lap and take your infallible British charm somewhere else, huh? I'm trying to read."_

_"But I loooooove you. See? You're smiling. You can't resist me. Go on. Say it. You love me."_

_"Yes. I have fallen for your charm and your wit. I cannot imagine a life without you. Now, kindly get out and leave me alone."_

_"I'm going to ignore your sarcasm and take that as an admission of your undying love for... hey, watch it! Hands off the... ow, woman! Okay, okay, I'm leaving."_

He had carefully laid out plans to make the night on which he would propose to her absolutely perfect. There had been times, lying with her in his arms, that he had been sorely tempted to ask her out of the blue, but he had bit his tongue when he would imagine the look on her face if he held out a little while longer and made it a truly special night for her.

He exhales a sigh and starts slightly as a boom of thunder echoes around the grey landscape around him. A storm is settling in and yet he still cannot tear himself away from his spot on the edge of the beach. He has always tried to live his life without regrets and, while he does not regret a single second he spent with her, in moments such as this, he sometimes wonders if he should have given into the urge of asking her on a lazy morning, lying in bed, rather than waiting for the special night. At least then she would have left the world with a sealed promise to him, a promise that he would be her one and only. The promise had already been there, although it was unspoken. If the words had been spoken out loud, would it be different? Would he still feel like his heart had been ripped out of him if she had agreed to spend her future with him? Would he still long for her as much as he does now?

It is not often that he allows himself to sink into these thoughts. Today, ten years from the fateful night on which he had planned to propose to her, is one of the few times he has truly allowed himself to grieve for her. The sadness and numbness has become a part of him, but he very rarely permits it to envelope his entire body like he does now. For ten years, he has perfected a cheerful facade, one that masks the pain he feels inside. No one has seen through it and, as the storm breaks out before him in full force around him, he wonders absent-mindedly if anyone will ever look closely enough at him to see that his smile never quite reaches his eyes. He has come far from the bottomless pit of depression he had sunk into upon hearing the news of her death exactly ten years ago, but he has never felt the same happiness that he had once felt with her at his side.

He is holding the small jewellery box in his hand so tightly that the clasp is making a small indent into his hand, mingling with the other scars that mar the soft skin of his palm. Opening the clasp, he takes in the ring once more and a lone raindrop falls directly onto the diamond, lingering for a second or two before falling to his feet. Ten years ago, he had stood in his small kitchen, smiling at the ring and, now, he stands on a deserted beach, tears still silently falling down his face.

The flat had been perfect. He had taken the afternoon off work and had spent the entire time placing the final touches to the living room. He had filled a vase with wildflowers, the vibrant blues and reds contrasting with the dry wood of the table on which it sat. Never one for simple flowers, she had always liked wildflowers, stating that their obscurity and boldness spoke more to her than a red rose or white lily ever could. Tottering around their flat, he had nervously checked everything as he waited for the soft pop on the doorstep that would announce her arrival. Two candles had been lit, illuminating the room with a soft glow that had blended with the embers burning in the fire. The table had been set and dinner had been waiting on the bench, a heating charm keeping it warm. He had showered and dressed in the grey shirt she had always said brought out the colour of his eyes. The velvet jewellery box had been burning a hole in his pocket and he had repeatedly patted his upper thigh, assuring himself that it had not been misplaced as he had stared at the old, battered clock hanging on the wall, willing the hands to go faster.

An hour had passed, then two. A stab of worry shot through him as the minute hand had passed the six for the third time. It was not like her to be late. Bouncing on the tips of his toes, a crease had appeared in his forehead as he tried not to panic. There must have been a perfectly plausible reason for her to be late. The dragons were birthing and needed constant care – perhaps her supervisor had asked her to stay at the last minute. Maybe she had ducked into the store to buy those muggle marshmallows she adored so much. He had taken a seat on their couch and picked at the upholstery as he had tried to stop the anxious jiggling of his knee as he waited. The minute hand had now passed the twelve and he had not been able to deny it any longer. Three hours had passed since the time she had been due to arrive back in their flat. Something must have happened. Biting his lip as his mind had raced through all the things that could have happened to her, each worse than the one before, he had taken the black box out of his pocket and stared at it, hoping it would sooth his nerves.

It had not.

A feeling of dread had settled over him. He was not superstitious by any means and had never believed all the stories of people swearing that they could feel when bad things were about to happen, but, this time, he had _known_. His heart had told him that there was something wrong and he had had no idea how to fix it. The glimmering diamond of the ring he had held in his hand did nothing to calm him as he had silently wished that they were muggle and had access to telephones. Never before had he understood his father's obsession with all things muggle, but, stricken with worry, he would have given anything to have heard her gentle voice in his ear, assuring him that everything was all right.

He had never believed in a higher power but he had found himself praying, asking that if some being was out there, that they would watch over her and bring her to him, unscathed and unharmed. A small voice in the back of his head had still been adamant that, though it had been hours, there could still have been an explanation, but the larger part of his brain had taken over and he had nervously clenched and unclenched his jaw, waiting for something, anything. Taking the ring out of the box, he had turned it over and over in his fingers as he had taken some steadying breaths to calm himself down. He had just closed his eyes and sunk further back into the couch when the doorbell had rung, startling him and he had raced to the door.

Some part of his brain had registered that she would not have rung the doorbell unless she had misplaced her wand, but the part that was worried thin had vehemently hoped that he would be greeted with her apologetic, smiling face. He had fumbled with the door chain and flung the door open to be greeted with two of the senior men from the dragon enclosures. He had taken in their grave faces and had frozen as his eyes had flicked between the two of them. One of the men had been scuffing the doormat with the tip of his boot while the other had opened his mouth to speak, his eyes averted. Their mouths had moved, their eyes had conveyed their apologies but he had not registered any of it. All he had heard was the cling as the ring dropped out of hand and bounced on the hardwood floor, bouncing a few times before it had come to a rest.

No. No, no, no, no, _no_.

It was not possible. She could not have died. She could not have left him in this world by himself. Numbly, unaware of his actions, he had closed the door before collapsing against a wall, sliding down until his chin rested on his knees as he stared in front of him, attempting to understand what had just happened. Two men had not just come and informed him of his worst nightmare.

Shock. Numb. Denial. Empty.

His mind had gone into auto-pilot and he had not remembered any of the next few minutes. It had seemed like several lifetimes later when he had re-entered the realm of consciousness. Of two things he had been aware: one, he had somehow found his way to _their beach_ and two, there had been a huge hole in his chest that had only seemed to grow with each second that passed.

And then had came the _pain_. The unrelenting, agonising pain. Pain that had torn through his whole body. His knees had started to shake and, as he had fallen to his knees and succumbed to gut-wrenching sobs, all he could think was that she had broken her promise. She had promised that she would never leave him and she had. She had gone.

_She had gone._

The next few months had been the hardest of his life. He had not lived, he had simply existed. Because, surely, a life without her could not really be called living. A lost love is heart-wrenching, yes, but it cannot compare to the pain of losing a soul mate. A soul mate lost is like losing enough that only a shell remains, a fragment and sliver of what was once good and pure. And he had become a shell. A shell of his past life. He had no longer smiled. He had no longer laughed. He had simply gone about his day-to-day work listlessly, methodically. Her memory had haunted him. Everywhere he had gone, everything he had touched had been fused with her memories. He had dreamt of her at night and woken up in tears as his body shook with the realisation that he would never see her smile again. His friends had shot him worried glances that he had ignored. His supervisors had offered him time off from work which he had adamantly refused. He had needed the work, something, anything to try and forget the excruciating pain that had threatened to translate into tears if he thought about for too long. He had been simply... lost. Totally and utterly lost. He had no longer understood the point of life. What was he to do when he came home to an empty flat? How was he to move on with his life without her by his side? The bed had seemed too big without her snuggled up to his side, the flat too empty without her humming a tune. He could never arrange the pillows on the bed the way she used to. The garden had withered and wilted without her daily gardening charms.

The day of the funeral had come all too soon. The feeling of dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach upon hearing the news of her death only deepened as the day grew closer. He had not been ready to say goodbye to her. It had not been fair that she had left the world so early. It had not been fair that she left _him_. It had taken every ounce of willpower and strength he had left to climb out of bed and go to the beach that day. This beach, _their_ beach had once been a place of comfort, but as he had sat, staring at a thread hanging from the hem of his black shirt, all he had thought was that it was now forever tainted. The beach on which he had fallen in love was now the beach on which he was forced to say goodbye. It was not fair. _It was not fair..._

The never-ending flow of tears had stopped for the funeral, all he had felt was a cold numbness that took over his whole body. He remembers the pats on his back. He remembers the words of apology from strangers. Certain phrases of the speeches had drifted in and out of the small part of his mind that was conscious.

_...wonderful person... joy to all those who had known her... approached life with such enthusiasm... tragedy to have lost someone so young..._

He had foregone speaking at her funeral. Scattering her ashes into the sea that they had both loved had been enough. Part of him had known that she would be furious at the way he had been refusing to look after himself, but he had not cared. He could not have said anything. Who were these people who had claimed to know her so well? Who were they to talk about her as if she was still here? None of them had known her. None of them had known that she always slept with cold feet but refused to wear socks, claiming they fell off her feet. None of them had known that her favourite time of the day had been when the sun had just set and the sky was bathed in a soft, pale orange as night began to settle in. None of them had known that the scar on her left elbow was when she had fallen out of a tree when she was seven years old. None of them had known that the only time she truly felt free was when she was dancing in the rain. None of them knew that she set out to knit herself a scarf every year and had failed as many times as she had tried. None of them had known that when she was kissed on the side of her neck, her body would tremble with passion. None of them had known that when she spoke words of love, her eyes would darken. None of them knew that her smile was bright enough to light up the darkest day.

None of them had known her like he had.

He had gone home that year a broken man. The spring in his step had turned to a distracted shuffle, the twinkle in his eye replaced with a permanent sadness. His red hair, once a vibrant red, was now dull and lifeless. The lines on his face, once permanently etched into a smile, had deepened into the lines of a face well beyond his years. His whole demeanour sagged, his head was bowed and his shoulders slumped. Again, he had faced questions from his parents and siblings and he, once again, had given vague and disinterested answers. Not because he did not want them to know, but, somehow, saying it out loud would make it real. And he had not been sure he was ready to accept that. His family would have been understanding, he knew, but he simply could not find the words to tell them. The mind that had once struggled to find words to express the joy in his life now struggled to find words to express the total devastation he felt. How could he have told them that he had not known how to continue with his life? What words could have truly conveyed how the world made no sense without her smile, her touch, her kiss? How could he have expressed the _pain_, the unbearable pain he felt in his heart, how he felt like his heart had shattered into a thousand pieces and that he had felt every single crack? The last straw had come when his mother, in her typical, lovable fashion, had asked him if he had any girlfriend to speak of. Excusing himself under the guise of finding a hat to block out the icy winter air, he had turned a corner and collapsed against a wall of his childhood home and surrendered to the tears that had been pricking at the back of his eyes for the entire holiday season.

It had been late, much later, as he had lain in the room he had grown up in, that he had decided to simply not tell his family. Still to this day, he wonders if he had made the right choice, but the thought of regaling them with his tale was too much. It still is too much, and never in ten years has he found the words or the courage to tell any of them. He sees the curious glances sent his way and he knows they have seen the change in him, but they never ask and he never tells. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had known that telling the people closest to him would have eased the pain somewhat, yet he still did not. He had merely drifted through from day to day, silently watching from the sidelines as his family had celebrated the coming new year. His smiles had been half-hearted, his jokes indolent. Gone was the man of a year before, a man who had radiated joy and happiness. In his place had been a shattered man whose heart crushed with every step he took.

The time he had spent with his family had been a blur. Indeed, the only vivid memory he had of those months was a small, black velvet box that rarely left his pocket or his hands. It had seemed to be the last thing that tied him to her and he had spent many a night, blinking back tears as he stared at the small circle of gold that had once held so many promises.

He looks at it now, as he has so many times before, and he traces his fingers gently over the three words carved into the inside of the band. _To the moon._ A simple phrase that had once meant so much to him. Like most things in their relationship, it had only made sense to them. An outsider would not and could not begin to understand the little things that made their relationship so special, so sacred.

_"It would be amazing to travel to the moon, don't you think?"_

_"Muggles have done it, you know. My dad is always going on about it."_

_"Mmm. But to truly go there for yourself, to see just how big the universe really is. There would be nothing else like it. Don't you ever wonder how the Earth would look from out there? A tiny ball covered in blues that mixed in and contrasted with greens. And then you would look across and see the stars spilled across the darkness, close enough that you could reach out and touch them. It would be so... beautiful, so... what? Why are you staring?"_

_"Nothing. Listening to you talk, I just... I love you. I really love you."_

_"I love you, too. More than words can say."_

_"I think I can find the words."_

_"Oh? You can?"_

_"Mhmm. How about this: I love you all the way to the moon."_

_"All the way too the moon, huh?"_

_"And back."_

_"To the moon and back. It's beautiful."_

_"Not half as beautiful as you."_

The words still speak volumes to him. He _still_ loves her all the way to the moon. And back. His love has not diminished, not in the slightest. The ring is the only thing of her that he kept. Everything else was too painful to keep. If not in her things, he still held her memory close to his heart. It has been ten years. Ten, long, painful years and he has come to this beach to let go, to say goodbye.

He slowly takes the ring in between his forefinger and his thumb and dangles it over the sea in front of him. The sky has almost darkened, and the storm has lessened somewhat, though the rain still falls, beating down gently onto the shore. Though it feels as though his tear ducts have completely dried, tears still continue to fall with the rain as he tries to gather the courage to drop the ring into the water.

He knows it is time. Holding onto the ring will not bring her back. Nothing will. And, while difficult, it needs to be done. Giving it to the sea, the last fragment he has of her can finally be laid to rest, amongst the ashes he scattered at this very spot so many years ago.

His arms stays outstretched, frozen as he gazes, unblinking at his fingers. And, suddenly, a huge gush of wind races along the beach, pushing past him and causing his hair and clothing to flap wildly. All sounds fade from his ears, all sights blur in his vision and, for a second, the entire world stands still. The crickets stop their chirping. The sea stops its churning. Just for a moment, all the elements of the world are at peace with one another. It is as if the Earth has stopped spinning.

His breath is caught in his chest, his heart stops beating as a sudden, familiar warmth ignites within him, a warmth he has not felt in ten years and he closes his eyes at the intensity of it. It starts in his heart and flows to the tips of his fingers, right down to his toes. For the first time in a very long time, he can breathe. He feels no pain, but it is not the usual numbness he has grown accustomed to – it is as if the pain has ceased to exist. And he _knows_.

It is her love.

It is the warmth of her love that is encompassing him, shielding him from the cold, the rain and the _pain_, the everlasting ache that never fades. It is her love that makes him feel truly alive for the first time since a doorbell rang in a small flat in eastern Romania, ten years ago. He can feel it running through him, coursing through his veins and he suddenly remembers what it is like to feel alive. To actually _feel_ his heart pumping, instead of wondering whether it is still beating enough to keep him alive. The world makes sense again. And, as beautiful and pure as her love is, the tears do not stop. If at all, they increase. He has missed it _so much_. He never understood just how much he has missed her love until this very second. Yet, these are not tears of sadness, they are ones of joy. Joy at being able to feel her again, even if for a brief second.

The moment fades, as suddenly as it came and he opens his eyes. The usual numbness creeps back into his veins with such speed that he wonders if the moment was real or just a figment of his imagination. But he finds he does not care. That brief moment was enough to give him a renewed sense of purpose. The pain of his loss still resides in his heart, but it is though he now has the armour to fend himself against it.

His arm is still outstretched over the water, the ring still dangling between his fingers. He continues to stare at it for a while longer and then briefly nods, as if making a decision. Slowly, he retreats his arm, places the ring back in the box and slips it back to its home in his pocket. Perhaps it is foolish, perhaps he will regret it when he wakes up the following morning, but all he knows is that he cannot bear to give it to the sea. It will be like giving the last piece of his soul to the sea. And he cannot do that. He needs the last part of his soul to live. If not for him, but for _her_.

His pocket is now weighed down with the familiar weight of the box and he closes his eyes and inhales the crisp air around him. Though he feels himself charged with a new vigour, the emptiness has settled into the pit of his heart once again. The brief second in which he has just found her love, the one thing that truly makes sense to him, ended all too soon. The sadness has encompassed him once more and his heart is once again heavy. He needs _her_. He needs her beside him, looking up at him in that quiet, loving way of hers. Her physical presence is what he misses most and he knows that, even if for a second, if he can just feel it once more then he can truly move on with his life. If he could just have the opportunity to truly say goodbye, his life may not be the shell it has been for the past ten years.

His head is bowed and his eyes are closed as the last few tears trickle out the corner of his eyes. If he wishes and prays hard enough, he can still feel her as if she is right here, next to him. He can feel the way always fits perfectly in his arms when he holds her close, he can feel the warmth of her breath as she rests her forehead against his, the softness of her skin as it melts beneath his hands, the light brush of her lips against his.

But he knows he never will. She is gone. His heart is still broken.

The raindrops still fall.

FIN


End file.
